I thought I would title this I enjoy silence, but it’s not really silence. I prefer the sounds of nature, animals, birds, wind, and ocean; to those of human cacophony. The sounds of arguing people, loud music from cars driving by, power tools, motors revving, car alarms, sirens, children screaming, anything angry or disjointed can too easily affect my mind's ability to filter my mood. Even lonely dogs barking are of human making.

I much prefer the sounds of the natural world, like birds. I like where my mind goes. Can I identify the bird just by the call? Can I see it in the trees? I enjoy the ocean. The sound of the waves and ocean breeze bring a calm to me that is necessary to my being. The wind through the leaves in the woods makes me listen. The wind off the ocean filtered by the needles of the Torrey Pines is pure magic; like a two-for-one prize. Then to look off in the distance to see the waves breaking, dolphins enjoying the surf, the endless horizon; this refreshes my soul, this restores my sanity, this gives me the peace I crave.

Ever since I watched the National Park series on PBS, I have a yearning to go see them. But as winter approaches, not such a good idea. Snow and I are not good acquaintances. Perhaps a jaunt to the local mountains or walk at the beach is in order. I need to cleanse my brain of the whirring, jarring, yelling, sounds of the city.

We found the tiny club where Wassim would be playing that night. Nicholas met us on the street and was very pleased to see us again. We had witnessed the brilliance of both of their darbuka skills at the festival, their patient teaching style in the classes, and their kind friendship during our week in Biarritz. Nicholas would not be playing but was here for support. Lexi and Quinn, along with Quinn’s husband who had joined them for the next leg of journey, Lynda, Zabeth, Line, Bonnie and I piled into the back of the club. It was sweltering hot with only one small fan blowing what seemed like two drops of air around the small cube of a room. A few other folks were there, some to see the show, others patrons of the bar.

Wassim and his clarinet player had hooked up with an accordion player that evening. They started with a raucous Turkish Romany tune. They played another and another, until they were dripping wet in the heat. A few girls got up to dance in the tiny space in front of the stage. One girl was sort of doing Turkish dancing but mostly kept looking to see who was watching her. I decided she was the lost love child of Liz Strong and Paris Hilton.

Wassim was brilliant. I watched his hands fly on the darbuka. The accordion player was great, swaying from side to side as he pulled and mashed at the accordion. The clarinet player wailed out the tunes. One would have no idea that these guys had never player together before this night. A violin player showed up halfway through the set and sat in. On the last song, a guy with a giant bass asked if he could sing along. They decided on the rhythm Chiftetelli and this guy went into a rap song, in French, about Chiftetelli, made a play on words and by the end it was the Chef D’Italy. Frankly it was brilliant. Weird but totally fun.

At the end of the night, Wassim handed me this giant Syrian Bendir. Simply crafted of wood and goatskin with nylon strings across the head; it sounded amazing. Then he told me he wanted me to have it. He brought four of them to give to his favorite students but he wanted me to pick which one I wanted. I was floored. I knew Wassim was amazing but I think I fell in love with him that night.

The next day, Zabeth took us out to the Castle Fontainebleau. These are the grounds where the kings and queens of France lived until Louis XIV moved it all to Versailles in 1682. The title of this blog is opulence. This was my impression of Fontainebleau from the first moment. Not one wall was blank, not one piece of wood undecorated, not one stick of furniture was less than fabulous; this whole place was the epitome of excess. I’ve seen castles and royal houses in England, the riches of the Ottoman Empire, and the seats of power in America; but perhaps to have it all in one place, set out like this bordered on the grotesque. Zabeth told us that Versailles is ten times what we were seeing here. No wonder the peasants revolted.

The painting and the sculptures were amazing. Some, like the huge six foot jar in the picture above, were just silly. The grounds outside were just as grand with several man-made lakes, fountains, flowers, shrubbery, statuary, peacocks, forests and lawns as far as the eye could see. I spent some time trying to catch a photo of just one of the butterflies and bees on the flowers but they were far to busy enjoying the pollen to pose for me.

We made our way back into Paris through the traffic. We stopped briefly at a small suburb so Zabeth could sign the papers for their new flat. We saw the Eiffel Tower off in the distance, made it back to the apartment, and collapsed for the evening.

We had set aside a day to explore the historical sights of Lesbien Paris. Bonnie looked up the addresses where Natalie Clifford Barney had her salon in the 20s, Gertrude and Alice had their bookstore and home, the coffeehouses they hung out with Jean-Paul Sartre, Picasso, Oscar Wilde and Colette. The hotel d’Angleterre, where many of the out of town guests stayed, like Hemingway, Ezra Pound, and Thorton Wilder.

Zabeth would be our tour guide for the day. She had previously been to Natalie Barney’s apartment and had been let into the inner sanctum by a then elderly maid who had kept all of Natalie’s books.

We stopped at Violette & Company, a lesbian bookstore. It was a small quaint place filled with books and postcards. There were some t-shirts on the wall; one said, “The cure for homophobia is homeopathy.” We bought a book and some cards. We started on the bus and then walked by the Seine. We wandered the side streets until we found the address of Natalie’s house.

The whole place was undergoing a renovation. We snuck into the courtyard and peeked into the backyard where many a fabulous garden party had been held. These walls had seen many a scandalous moment in those days with women in several apartments, artists painting models, and tumultuous writers knitting their brows at desks now long discarded. We went into a stairwell and Zabeth pointed out a door that used to lead to the library where she had been. These were the stairs where great women had walked. These handrails were caressed by those hands. This window had framed the vision of a woman as she waited on the street below. Had this corner of the stairwell been where Natalie pressed Renée Vivian against her for that first passionate kiss, not able to contain her beating heart any longer?

There was no plaque, no notice, no idea what had gone on here, except what research we had done. It seemed only we knew at that moment. These were just someone else’s apartments now. Did they even know? Were they secretly inspired in the night? Did their hearts swell with love and creativity? The hopeless romantic in me dreams it could be so.

We stopped at the Hotel d’Angleterre and saw a notice on the wall about Hemingway. We walked on to see the Deux Magots café where many of them sat and talked over their lives. We found Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas’s house. There was a plaque on this wall commemorating the place. The courtyard garden looked so sweet, I could almost picture them having coffee together on a summer day. Here is where they made their lives together, outside of the prying eyes of the world, safe, together, and happy. This is where the ordinary happened and the extraordinary part of love bloomed. The part of love when you fix a meal together, wash the dishes, and lay in each other’s embrace at the end of a long day. It was here where perhaps two of the most recognizable names in lesbian history lived out the precious mundane moments that made up their life together.

We walked down to the Luxembourg Gardens at the end of their street. Many famous painters have depicted scenes here, many artists of the time found inspiration here. We walked through and saw children sailing toy boats in the fountain, lots of flowers, donkey draw cart rides for children, and many beautiful statues. By the time we made it to the other side to find the bus home, we were exhausted.

We stopped at the Monoprix grocery, had a bite to eat, and prepared to go out to see Wassim play at a local club.

One of my odd hobbies is exploring old cemeteries. You find out the most interesting history of a place that way. Napoleon decided that all the great French people, artists, writers, musicians, and statesmen would be remembered properly and show the greatest of France. The remains of Moliere and La Fontaine were moved there in 1804. There are over 300,000 buried there. I knew we would only manage to find a few of the precious ones close to our hearts.

The cemetery was just up the road from the apartment where we were staying. We strolled up the street and stopped at a small café called Art and Te for an omelet and coffee for breakfast. This was also one of the things I wanted to do in Paris. Just sit in a café, off the beaten path, and have a real coffee. Our waiter was very nice and spoke some English. Again, shattering the tales of rude Parisians.

The couple of flower shops along the way were closed on Sunday, so I would not have a chance to buy flowers to place on Marceau’s grave. That was all right as he wasn’t expecting me anyway. All the websites had said there would be stands selling maps and the guards would have maps at the cemetery. We did not see anyone selling maps but there were a few general maps posted. We did see plenty of people with maps but not where to get one. I asked the guard where Marceau’s grave was at and he said “21.” This referred to the section where he was located.

We had our print out of who was in what section but immediately we were overwhelmed by the spectacular sculptures and grandeur of this place. We are so used to angels looking up to heaven and cherubs so happy that the dead person is with God now. But here, the angels were weeping, faces held in hands, broken hearted. Palettes and brushes of great artists lay aside crying statues for that art will never be made again. The angel at Chopin’s grave held her harp in her lap, so sad that that music could not even be played. So much more honest, this grief of death.

We saw the great writer Collette’s grave. Hers and Chopin’s grave were well tended with many flowers and plants. We searched and searched for Marceau but couldn’t find him in section 21. Finally I asked a family to look at their map. He was in section 20. I thanked the nice man and we walked up the hill to find him. Bonnie spotted a newer gravestone with the Star of David and sure enough there he was. I found a nice shiny black stone to place for him and took some pictures with my master.

We wandered on through the city of the dead. The trees and streets through the graves were amazing. Obelisks, statuary, ironwork, monuments, and history surrounded us. We found the columbarium where Isadora Duncan rests but could not find her among the thousands of plaques. We walked on to find Oscar Wilde’s sphinx. The entire thing was covered in lipstick kisses. Written on the bottom was “The greatest man in all the world.” It was so sweet. We found Gertrude’s Stein very plain grave together with Alice B. Toklas. It had a few stones along the top and one plain rose. Very poignant for her “A rose is a rose is a rose.”

We walked past the section for the WWII memorials for the concentrations camps. “France will never forget you,” was written on many of them. We cried a lot on that path. We heard someone ringing a bell in the distance and figured that this was our notice that the place would be closing. We had walked for hours and only seen a small part of this amazing place. We were hot, tired and hungry again. We walked around the outside of the cemetery back to the café and had a salad and a cold drink.

There was a picture on the wall of some fish. They all looked very surprised. Bonnie had me pose with the fish with the same face. It was very hard to take the picture since every time I made the face, Bonnie laughed her head off and everyone in the place looked at us and then I got embarrassed to be making such a ridiculous face. But eventually the masterpiece was made.

For more photos of out trip, check here:
www.facebook.com/home.php#/album.php

For more info on the cemetery, check here:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P%C3...e_Cemetery
goparis.about.com/od/sights...chaise.htm